


Jonah and the Whale

by Swindlefingers



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Espionage, Gen, Guilt, Lynching, Minor Character Death, Minor Character(s), Origin Story, Original Character(s), POV Third Person Limited, Past Tense, Synths (Humans), The Institute - Freeform, The Railroad, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 08:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7500699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swindlefingers/pseuds/Swindlefingers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <img/>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="small">"Wyatt and Kitch find John" by Tumblr artist <a href="http://tsuyuus.tumblr.com/">Tsuyuus</a></span>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>A character origins story that explores the idea that the last man standing after the first recorded attack on the Railroad Headquarters in 2266, named "John D." in PAM's logs, was an Institute operative. </p>
<p>Conrad Kellogg was the man tasked by Institute scientist Shaun to find, train, and install an operative within the Railroad to eventually destabilize the meddling organization. What the Institute couldn't predict was the operative defecting after witnessing the carnage of that first attack in 2266. This operative was the person we come to know as Deacon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For LP: Thank you for planting the seed for this story and helping it grow.

Second raider nest this month. Kellogg cleared his throat and spat on the dilapidated floor. Second nest he had to go digging through looking for the Institute’s lost work crew. Surface work was never simple, it’s why they left it up to the Gen 3s, but the raiders usually knew better than this.

It’d been thirty-six hours since work crew G6500 had been in contact with the Institute. He spent six hours of searching through buildings and hovels that smelled like stale piss, careful to step over used needles and piles of human shit. Kellogg worked through most of the gang’s mostly-sober leadership for information with scant results. He’d found three of G6500’s crew, and just like last time, one was unaccounted for.

Earlier in the month, the entirety of work crew G2339 had been snatched up and dismembered by these fucking savages. He found four of the synth crew in pieces. Eight hands, eight feet, four heads. Number five was chained to a wall and looked half dead. Kindest thing he could do was put a bullet in his brain.

From what he gathered, the Institute had planted its workgroups right in the middle of a Raider turf war.

The raiders were getting bold with these work crew kidnappings. The caps and chems the Institute handed out for good behavior seemed to be taken for granted. The Director sent him up to make sure their gifts were being appreciated, and that the crews were being avoided, a task Kellogg relished.

He spun the cylinder of his pistol. The mechanical whir was soothing. He pressed the barrel to the captured raider’s kneecap. She fidgeted against the ropes that bound her to a decrepit chair.

“Where’s the synth?” he asked slowly.

The raider laughed, revealing a row of rotted teeth.

Kellogg fired and savored the sound. His pistol's gunshot was one of his favorite musical notes. Through the fine mist of blood hanging in the air, he spotted a face he’d seen darting around the edges of the other Raider camps he'd scoped out.

A kid; shock of red hair. Young. Late teens. Bare face. Still had all his teeth and fingers. He wore a few scraps of raider gear, but too clean to be one himself. Not as neat and clean as the eggheads in the Institute, but not the same savage kind of dirty that raiders had.

The Institute’s pods of Watchers only saw so much. With a synth still missing, the kid _could_ have some information they didn’t.

The raider cackled hysterically, eyes wide and wild from pain or psycho, or both, Kellogg wasn’t sure. He figured her brain was as rotted as her teeth if kneecapping wasn’t getting him anywhere. He pressed the barrel to her temple and fired again.

 

* * *

 

Tracking the kid was a challenge, but the chase was invigorating. He followed him to a vault. 93 the number said. Opened a while ago, going by the debris collecting around the thick vault door. Kellogg’s ocular implants adjusted to the dim lights inside. It seemed mostly abandoned. A generator hummed further inside. A single set of light footsteps padded along ahead of him.

The vault was small, looked like it housed less than fifty. Bullet holes and deep cuts decorated the walls, but the exposed metal had begun to rust. Raiders? Gunners? Decades ago, most likely.

Following the footsteps, he walked past dormitories, libraries, and shower facilities before he found himself entering a small dining hall. He spotted the kid weaving between the metal tables, dropping his pack and the scraps of leather armor on the one nearest the kitchen. Kellogg passed through the shadows, as close as he dared. The kid reached up and switched on a flashlight dangling from a string in the small, open kitchen. He pulled out two dingy plates from a nearby cupboard and opened two cans of CRAM he’d pulled out of his pack, frying chunks of the processed meat product up on the stove.

The sizzling masked the sound of Kellogg’s approach. Standing far enough away to not be caught by any punches, but close enough to intimidate.

“Hey, kid.” Kellogg’s greeting cut through the darkness.

“Holy- what the shit!” the kid exclaimed, jumping back from the stove. He spun to face Kellogg, fists pulled back and ready to throw.

“Easy, easy now.” Kellogg displayed his empty hands in front of him. “Just here to ask a few questions.”

“Who says I got answers?” The kid scowled. He didn’t look as young up close. Early 20’s and definitely not a raider. His eyes were too clear. Bright blue.

“I’ve seen you topside a few times now. I think you know a lot about the raiders up in Kendall Hospital and their recent guests.” Kellogg pulled out a few caps from his jacket pocket and rattled them in his palm. Most raiders only needed a few to get that glassy, pliant look in their eye. The kid’s frown intensified. Kellogg pulled out a few more, and a bottle of Med-x. He rattled the bottle before slowly placing it in the kid’s pack. A sign of goodwill.

The kid’s fists started to lower before he snapped them back up near his face.

“How’d you follow me?”

“Wasn’t easy, I’ll give you that. Where’d you learn to double back like that?”

The kid shrugged and smirked behind his tight fists, “Guess I’m a natural.”

“Bullshit.”

The kid flinched and slid one of his feet back, squaring himself up. His eyes darted down the hallway to their left. Kellogg held his hands up, “Hey, now. I’m just looking for the people those raiders took off with, that’s all. Trying to get them back where they belong.”

The kid shrugged, “I saw you there, Pops. Unless you need glasses, you know what happened to them.”

“Trouble is I only found three heads. There were four in in that crew.” Kellogg reached into his jacket and pulled out a small sack, tossing it on the table. The caps inside clattered against each other. More caps for more information.

The kid eyed the cap purse. His arms dropped to his sides, but his hands were still clenched into fists.

“Why do you care?” the kid asked with a flick of his chin.

“I get paid to care. Just your average merc hired to find some very valuable assets.”

“By who?” The kid narrowed his eyes. Not what Kellogg was up for answering. It was too risky. Tell the kid what he doesn’t want to hear and he could lose any leads to the lost synth.

Kellogg snorted, “I’m paying you to answer questions, Kid, not ask them. Now, any idea where my lost lamb is? Maybe... down that hallway you keep eyeballing?”

In the silence, Kellogg quirked an eyebrow and nodded at the two plates on the counter.

The kid smirked. He nodded his head and opened his mouth to speak before suddenly lunging for the sack of caps and dashing past Kellogg. He stuck his fingers into his mouth and whistled sharply. The sound briefly overloaded Kellogg’s aural amplifiers, but once they recovered he caught the sound of hurried footsteps further inside the vault.

Kellogg grabbed the kid, flinging him away from the hallway, and took off towards the footsteps. No one, not even a top side scavver synth would be able to outrun or outmaneuver him, not in this darkness and not with his fancy egghead upgrades.

A figure ahead of him darted through a doorway and Kellogg watched them bump into a table before skidding across the floor and scrambling back onto their feet. He could tell from the dingy uniform it was the lost synth.

“No!” the synth shouted as they looked behind themselves.

Kellogg barreled down the causeway, his boots ringing on the metal floor, each step gaining on them. He reached out, grabbing their arm and spinning them around, “Gotcha.”

“No, no, no!” they screamed, frantically trying to wrench themselves away Kellogg.

“Relax.” Kellogg warned, shaking them by the arm.

“No! I don’t—I don’t want to go with you.” Their eyes were wide and wild. They scratched at his hand, trying to loosen his grip. “The Institute will come back for me. Please, just let me wait. I want to wait!”

Kellogg laughed, "You _really_ think I'm—"

“But th-the whistle?” Their brows knit together, fingers still scrabbling at his grip on their arm.

“Wait’s over H4-23. I’ve got you a ticket back to the Institute.”

Their mouth open and closed, open and closed, like those orange fish in the pond at the center of the Institute. Their eyes darted over his shoulder. He had heard the kid approach, but failed to hear the hammer pulling back while he was having his little chat.

Kellogg felt the cool steel of a gun barrel press against the back of his skull.

“Thought. He might be. With that group. You were. Worried about. The train people.” The kid explained between gasps, trying to recover from his sprint.

“Me? With the Railroad?” Kellogg exploded with laughter. “That's fucking rich. What's the saying? ‘How can you tell if someone’s with the Railroad’?”

Silence hung in the room. Kellogg canted his head, inviting anyone to answer.

The kid sighed. He repeated in a dull monotone, “I don't know. How _can_ you tell if someone’s from the Railroad?”

“Don’t worry, they’ll tell you.” Kellogg lifted up his hands, waiting for his punchline to land. It usually got a few belly laughs out of the crew in the SRB, even a chuckle out of Shaun once. This room was proving much harder to play.

“So y-you’re with the Institute? They sent you to look for me?” H4 smiled. Their fingers wrapped around his wrist, squeezing.

“More or less. They sent me to find out what happened to your crew. You’re not dead so you’re going back.”

“Back home?”

“Sure. ‘Home’. Whatever you want to call it.”

“Thank you,” H4 pressed a hand to their chest and breathed a sigh of relief. Kellogg felt the pistol drop, heard the hammer un-cock. The synth continued. “This place is a nightmare. T-t-the Raiders, they came out of nowhere once we’d stopped to eat for the night. We thought we were safe, we hadn’t seen them all day. We made two stay on watch while two slept. As soon as the sun went down, though…”

“Yeah, their usual MO.” Kellogg grunted.

H4 nodded. They leaned in to whisper to Kellogg, “I, um, I agreed to pay John for his help. I don’t, uh, I don’t have any money.”

“He’s been paid. You ready?”

“I'm ready. I'm so very ready,” they smiled.

Kellogg turned to face the kid. “John”, he’d been called. “You interested in earning some more caps?”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“What you’ve been doing: watching. You get caps for telling me what you see. You see some good stuff, you get some good caps. I can toss in some high-grade chems, too. Pure, uncut mentats. None of the shit you get up here that’s cut with Abraxo. Plenty of Med-X, if that’s your poison.”

“And what, pray tell, am I watching?” John crossed his arms while he waited for an answer.

Kellogg sneered, “The Railroad.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Found you a candidate,” Kellogg dropped a manila folder onto Shaun’s desk. It startled the scientist away from his microscope. He looked up at Kellogg’s face, waiting for apology for his interruption. When no apology appeared, Shaun reached for the file, carefully opening it, and glancing at the scant paperwork — a page of handwritten notes and a photo of a young man pulling an odd face — before huffing. “Someone from the surface? Surely you’re joking.”

“And I told you already that someone from down here is not gonna work. They're going to stick out like a sore thumb. People will know something’s up. That’s the last thing you need.” Kellogg leaned against the smooth laminate wall of Shaun’s private lab, idly scratching at his neck.

The cyborg's presence in the spotless, hygienic sanctuary of the Institute always seemed inappropriate. All of his metal and leather, grease and grime. As he moved through the clean, glassy hallways, Kellogg left behind a trail of irradiated dirt like a slug. A slug that never failed a task put to him, though, Shaun admitted to himself. He never failed to get results.

“Yes, yes, as you’ve stated multiple times.” Shaun closed the folder and rubbed his eyes, sighing. The parameters of this experiment were simple, and yet Kellogg ignored them.  “I would feel more comfortable working with someone who shares our values. Someone we can rely on.”

“And I’m telling _you_ that caps are all you need for some people’s loyalty.” Kellogg smirked and pointed to the file in Shaun’s lap. “His loyalty. It’s in the notes.”

> _H4-23 reports that “John” agreed to help them for future payment. John fed, clothed, and hid H4 in the promise of caps. He’s not jaded enough to ask for payment upfront. Good thing. H4 expressed intense fear at being captured by the Railroad. That fear, combined with the promise of caps, drove John to successfully hide the synth from me until he felt that running was the only option._
> 
> _Luckily for us, H4 expressed relief when they learned I was with the Institute, in front of John._
> 
> _With enough caps, and reinforcing the idea that the Railroad takes synths against their will, we can use this sneaky shit to become our operative within the Railroad._

“But you know what’s riding on this. Can I afford to take the risk with an outsider?” Shaun looked up from his reading.

“What risk?” Kellogg’s voice grated with irritation. “We trade intel for caps. No intel, no caps. We get enough intel and we use it to take the Railroad down. You look like a hero, and I’m talking to the next Director. Bad intel? The Railroad takes a few hits, gets paranoid, and-”

“And they burrow further underground.” Shaun interrupted. “If his cover is blown, if he outs us, if he becomes a turncoat, it may become even more difficult for our infiltration units, once they’re ready, to gain access the Railroad’s infrastructure in the future.”

“He can’t out us without outing _himself_ and Wastelanders aren't big on self-sacrifice. Besides, nothing ventured, nothing gained. And think of the data you’ll have for your infiltration units from this.”

The potential data would be _invaluable_. A training program must evolve, and for the moment they were trying to infiltrate an unknown scenario. There were too many variables. Even if the infiltrator failed, the data gained would be incredible. He stood and handed the file back to Kellogg to destroy.

“Fine. You have my approval to move forward. But if this goes belly-up, I had nothing to do with this. Do you understand? I cannot be associated with this experiment.” His current position within the Robotics department was tenuous at best. His seat and status not much more than a gift in exchange for the spotless DNA that he had given to the very Gen 3 synths the Railroad was running off with. The Director finding out he was in cahoots with the Institute's fixer for a mission not approved by the Board would erase the credibility he'd spent his life carving out.

“What experiment? It was just a hair-brained idea I had. Never mentioned it to anyone. Paid this runt out of my own pocket. Thought it’d work, turns out it didn’t.” Kellogg shrugged, his voice as flat and grim as ever.

“You know the plan. We just—” Shaun huffed, instantly irritated at having to repeat himself. Kellogg’s eye-roll caught him. “Oh. Yes. Good. You don’t know the experiment, of course. Then it’s settled. Please begin this as soon as possible. I expect reports every two weeks at the very least.”

Kellogg turned to leave from the room.

Shaun sat back down, but paused in turning back to his microscope, “Oh, one thing.”

“Yeah?” Kellogg rolled up the file and stuffed it inside his jacket.

“What makes you so sure we can integrate him into the Railroad? All previous attempts to find them have failed.”

“Easy. We send him off with something the Railroad can’t resist,” he shrugged.

“And that is?”

Kellogg smiled, “A synth.”

 

* * *

 

  
R3-42 shifted from foot to foot, tugging at the hem of her shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles, flicking a fleck of ash from the arm of her jacket. Her stash of Commonwealth clothing had grown slowly and surely over the last six months on the surface. She hadn't remembered packing so many socks, but there they were. She knew the work rotations were long, but she never imagined it’d take her six months to get back to this spot.

She’d caught enough information from a caravan guard that didn't mind small talk in the middle of the night, that there was a farmstead a few miles up this main road. All she needed to do was take the first step.

Or… she could forget this stupid plan, put her uniform back on, and slink back to the group, blame her tardiness on a pack of feral dogs or something. Try this stupid idea later. Deal with being a pawn breaking her back scavenging for scrap metal for a few more years.

No. R3 shook her head. “Now or never”, she’d told G7 before she left for the work duty on the surface. Now or never.

Her steps were quick and light. A smile spread across her face as she realized these were the first steps she’d taken for herself. Step after step, dozens, then hundreds, going where she willed and taking her away from the place she considered her prison. She found joy in each footfall. A nervous kind of joy that vibrated under her skin, relishing each one but wondering how many more she would be able to take until she was stopped.

R3 didn't wonder for long as another set of steps picked up behind her. Turning to look, she saw the terrifying black jacket of a courser. R3’s stomach dropped and she broke into a sprint. As fast as her legs could take her, she sped towards the farmstead she'd only heard about.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a figure motion to her from a fast-approaching alley, waving her in. With no time to decide, she obeyed. The figure grasped for her arm and used her momentum to hoist her into a open dumpster, closing the lid quietly behind them.

The stench was overwhelming, she could taste the fetid air in her mouth as she gasped for air. Her heart pounded in her chest. Whatever she was crouched in, sloshed around her feet and soaked through the thin fabric of her shoes. She fell back and sat on something that ripped open and oozed through her pants.

R3 heard a sharp “Shh!”. She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to muffle her heavy breathing and hold back the bile rising in her throat.

Quick, clomping boots passed by the dumpster and continued on until they were out of earshot. For what felt like an eternity they sat in the darkness. Skittering sounds emanated from one dark corner and she bit on her tongue to keep from screaming. Her heart thundered in her ears.

A beam of light pierced the darkness as the figure lifted up the lid, looking up and down the alley before hoisting the lid completely up and scrambling out. She shielded her eyes from the day’s light. Gingerly, she tried to stand on the piles of rotten trash, trying not to notice what she was standing in. A face popped over the edge with a smile. A young man with short red hair and bright blue eyes.

“Looks like our friend there just kept on running.” He looked at a watch that wasn’t on his wrist, “Think she’s doing about a six-minute mile. 10 caps says she podiums at the Boston Marathon.”

R3 nodded her head, trying to follow along. He smirked and reached his hand into the dumpster, helping to pull her out. Landing on wobbly legs, she pulled at the edges of her clothing, trying to straighten them.

“You ok?” he asked, picking up his own pack from the side of the dumpster.

“Fantastic,” she muttered. Her shoes squelched as she shifted from foot to foot. She shook each one, hoping to shake off whatever had soaked through them. It was useless. An hour or two into complete freedom and she was already filthy. Maybe she could squeeze in a shower at the farmhouse she'd heard about. A nice hot shower.

“Ok, uh, thanks for the help. I’ll just be, y’know, on my way.” She nodded once, straightened her pack on her shoulders, and turned to follow the road she’d been on.

“Bunker Hill’s that way,” the redhead pointed up the street behind him.

“Huh?”

“Bunker Hill? The town you’re looking for?”

“Oh? Oh, yeah.” She nodded. Blend in, head to that hill place. A town would be better than one farm house. More people, a better place to wait. “Dunker Hill, yep. I’m heading to Dunker Hill.”

“Bunk-”

“Bunker Hill,” she quickly interrupted. R3 pulled a tight smile onto her face as she walked past her dumpster savior, and turned left as she reached the end of the street.

“No, that way.” He called down the street, thumbing away from her. She froze. He shook his head and jogged to where she stood. “Tell you what, friend. Five caps and I’ll take you there myself.”

“I don’t…” have any caps, she trailed off, but it probably smart to admit she couldn't pay for his help. He'd already saved her once without pay. Maybe she could trade something for five caps at this Hill place. She had an extra jacket and all those pairs of socks stuffed into the bottom of her bag.

“—have any caps? Why oh why am I not surprised. Eh, consider it a loan, then," he shrugged.

“A loan, sure,” she agreed, as if she had a choice. The pair turned and began their hike. It was quiet, she found her steps less joyous but just as nervous.

“Name’s John, by the way," he broke the silence after a moment, "I’ll be your tour guide for the evening. On the left here,” he swept his hand out along the buildings beside the road, “you’ll notice several pre-war structures commonly referred to as ‘burnt-out reminders of our nation’s former glory’ and on the right? Oh, more burnt-out reminders of our nation’s former glory. Odd.”

“I’m, uh, I’m… Ricky?”

“Really? Cause you don’t sound too sure about that,” he chuckled.

“Yeah, heh,” she glanced down at the road, “I don’t feel too sure about it.”

“Maybe you’ll come up with something better on the way. Hey, maybe I will, too. Who knows. What do you think of ‘Lance’?” He laughed.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Five fucking days.

John rubbed at his eyes and yawned. Another long day of hurrying up and waiting had come to a close, he hunched over a freshly emptied bowl of radstag stew in Bunker Hill’s commissary. He was still flush with caps from Kellogg, could still afford to buy hot meals instead of making his own, but caps were gonna stop coming if he couldn’t get the Railroad to come for the lost and lonely synth wandering Bunker Hill.

The longer they stayed, the more questions Bunker Hill asked and the more grumbling he heard. None of them were asking the right question, and none of them were grumbling about the Railroad. The waiting was setting his teeth on edge.

He chuckled to himself at the thought of running a personal ad, like the ones he saw in those old yellowed newspapers in the vault’s archive:

> _You, a clandestine organization who helps special people. Me, a special person who needs help from a clandestine organization. Ask for Ricky in Bunker Hill._

Ricky toddled in from Bunker Hill's main gate, sliding five bottle caps across the table to him. “Now we’re even.”

He picked each one up, flipping it over, eyeballing her, “Where’d you get the dough?”

“A guy back there at the bar. He said he’d give them to me if I delivered some bottles to another guy.” She hunkered down, lowering her voice, “Did you know that you can get money for doing work up- I mean out— here?”

“What?” he feigned shock.

“Yeah! Where I was last, they just told you to do a job and you did it and that’s it. No caps, no anything. Wake up, work, eat, sleep, repeat.”

“Sounds like a bum deal, buddy.” John clicked his tongue in sympathy. He remembered some of what H4 had told him all those months ago in the darkness of Vault 93, where John had hidden them. Three square meals a day, hot water, clean clothes; it sounded like some kind of paradise. That wasn't what Ricky needed to hear, though. She needed to hear him commiserate, keep him on her good side. Besides, he'd get her back to that idyllic life soon enough. She just needed to shine bright enough to lure in some Railroad folks.

“Yeah, yeah it was." Ricky shrugged.

Returning from the dinner counter with her own bowl of stew, Ricky sat down and poked at the chunks of meat floating in the thick broth. A corner of her mouth pulling back. She looked up at John, “You don’t have to stay, you know. My friends should be here any time now.”

“Oh, I know. I figure I’ll just hang around to make sure you’re getting to where you gotta go. Besides, I’m waiting for someone.”

“It’s good to have someone to wait with.”

 

Ricky started her sixth day asking hypotheticals of the townsfolk about synths. John figured the worry about being stuck up here by herself was forcing her to reveal too much of her hand. Working on the surface had knocked some of that shine off of her.  H4 was the same way. The dirty nails and tan lines helped her fit in a little bit. That wonder in her eye, though. That was going to get her in trouble. How was she gonna survive up here?

He shook the thoughts out of his head. He reminded himself of the deal. She wasn’t gonna be living up here in the garbage like the rest of them. He congratulated himself on already thinking like a Railroad member, though. Method acting. Foolproof.

He did little to dissuade her. The Railroad would get word that there was a synth, or that someone was asking questions, they’d come check it out, they’d find her, take her, and he could tail along. With Ricky’s praise and his winning smile, he’d slip right into the organization as a well-meaning volunteer. The Railroad wanted to find synths, how could this possibly go wrong?

The collective grumbling of Bunker Hill increased throughout the day. John went against his better judgment of grabbing her and running, wagering that the tension would drive the Railroad in faster. They just had to wait it out a little bit longer. Tough it out.

It was a wager he lost. No, that Ricky lost.

The townsfolk came for her during that night’s supper, pushing and shoving. People drunk enough to find the courage to hassle the new kid in town. John spoke up, asked everyone to chill out. When the biggest and strongest grabbed Ricky, and she shrieked, he begged them to think about what they were doing. He cajoled and joked, promised to take her and go, to never come back, but the people of Bunker Hill were unmoved. They asked if he was also a synth, their glares dared to confirm their deepest fears by stepping forward and continuing to fight.

John knew the only way to convince them he was just as broken and horrible as any other human being was, instead, to do nothing. The angry mob trampled past him, swallowing up Ricky and surging towards the other end of the Hill. Her screams were barely audible over their shouting.

 

* * *

 

Ricky looked different strung up over a lamp post.

No one congregated near her body the next morning. John stood in the cold morning air by himself. One of her stained shoes lay on the bare ground. They wouldn't even take her perfectly good shoes, afraid they might catch the synth from wearing them.

He’d seen dozens, hundreds of dead bodies in his own vault and in the Raider dens, but it never got any easier. Her face was puffy and purple, tongue fat and bloated. Her eyes dull. The gray morning dew stuck to her skin and dripped from her lank hair. He began to doubt that the Railroad was real organization. If this Kellogg was just stringing him along for caps. Sure, H4 was terrified of them, but what if they were just a boogeyman the Institute told their synths so they'd stay inside instead of dreaming of a life out here with the monsters. Monsters just like him.

An older man with a week's worth of stubble approached and stood to his right. Someone who’d stopped to ogle at the synth. “Think she’s a synth?” he asked.

“Does it matter?” John replied.

A young woman with coils of black hair walked past him on his left, stopping a few steps closer to Ricky’s swaying body. “Think she deserved it?” She absentmindedly rolled a bullet casing over her knuckles.

“No,” he quielty replied.

He pulled his jacket tighter around him, chewing on the inside of his cheek, while he watched the cold morning air tousle Ricky’s clothing. He wondered if or when he could get her down. At least put her to rest somewhere she wouldn't be stared at until Kellogg could come get her. He sighed. Even the simplest plans could go bad. He wasn't sure if he could stomach doing this again with another synth if Kellogg wanted to keep trying.

“It’s all wrong,” John muttered to himself.

He spotted the younger woman nod to the older man. A quick jerk of her head.

“If you think this is wrong, we’ve got something you might want to hear.” The older man stepped closer. “Follow me.”

“I’m good, thanks.” John snorted, looking back up at Ricky. “Following strangers into an alley to be curb stomped and robbed isn’t how I usually start my morning.”

The young woman smirked, “Smart. How about we buy you breakfast, then? Right over there.” She nodded to the diner counter in the main commissary. A few other Bunker Hill residents perched on diner stools, inhaling powdered eggs and what smelled like CRAM. His stomach growled. Free food for listening to whatever they had to say about the horror of synths. Maybe they had some intel on the Railroad.

They took a table near the corner, his two new friends seated with their backs to the wall.

“I’m Jess. That’s Chuck.” The young woman nodded at her companion.

“John,” John muttered. “I’m John.”

Chuck pushed a plate of breakfast in front of him. The powdered eggs jiggled menacingly.

“Did you know her?” Jess asked.

“You could say that.” John sniffled, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jacket. He watched the two shoot each other knowing looks.

“Yeah, we understand. Losing a friend like that, it’s... it’s horrible." Chuck bowed his head. "We’re with a group of people who are trying to make sure people like your friend are safe. We’re sorry we got here too late to help her.”

John choked on a bite of CRAM. These people weren’t here to hassle him about knowing a synth, or being a synth himself. They were Railroad. These people were fucking Railroad.

Chuck reached out and patted John’s arm, he slid a can of water closer to him, “Easy does it.”

“Sorry,” John laid his fork down. “It’s just…” Tears welled up in his eyes, pulled up from the guilt already gnawing at him, his anger at them not finding her until it was too late, the disgust he felt at himself.

Chuck's face softened as he watched John, his hand never leaving John’s arm. “It’s shit, ain’t it. They escape slavery from the Institute and find nothing but hate waiting for them.”

John played along, angrily wiping away his tears. “Such shit,” he spit. “We were trying to find you. I kept… I kept asking around, y’know? Because I knew someone would find out about her sooner or later. They’d know she was different. Last night I... I tried to stop them but there were so many of them.”

He looked forlornly at his busted knuckles, bruised from a bar fight two days ago, but they didn’t need to know that.

“Do you want to make sure this doesn’t happen to anyone else?” Jake asked.

“W-what?”

Jess leaned over the table, “We’re offering you the chance to make a difference for people like your friend. You couldn’t help her last night, but you can help someone just like her.”

John averted his eyes, choosing to ignore the accusation woven in between her words, choosing to not throw it back in her face that they were just as unhelpful. He focused on the guilt, let it guide him as the "grieving friend".

“Y-Yeah,” he stuttered. “I’m in.”

“Welcome aboard,” Chuck smiled heartily and offered his hand. “Welcome to the Railroad.”


	4. Chapter 4

The work was easy enough. The people, easy enough. A few jokes, some smiles, and they were eating out of the palm of John’s hand. No one looked twice at the funny guy with the sad story, wondering if he was really playing for their team. The benefit of the doubt followed him into every conversation. No one questioned where he'd gone for hours, dropping of intel to Kellogg or a courser.

He shadowed an old-timer named Toby for two runs before finally being given his own synth to escort to Augusta. Learning how to dodge raider dens, even a few gunners, and the looming specters of coursers, kept the training runs quiet and quick.

B8-44 was silent as he was brought up from the root cellar they’d hid him in. Eyes wide and lips drawn tight. John greeted him with a quiet “hey pal” and tried to lighten the mood with a quick joke about the morning jog they were going to have.

John stood on one leg, reaching down to pull the foot of his other leg towards his ass, like he'd seen in the magazines of the sports section of the vault's library, “My quads are so tight. That ever happen to you?”

B8 stared at him impassively and said nothing. Toby leaned in to whisper that B8 wasn't saying much of anything since he'd escaped. Institute trauma or something. The higher ups were hoping he'd find his voice after his mind wipe. John's chest tightened. 

“Y’know B8, that’s a great point." John waggled a finger at him, "I probably am dehydrated. That’s exactly what it is. There’s something about that radiation aftertaste in the water, though, keeps me from drinking my eight glasses a day.”

Nothing. John shrugged at Toby and led B8 through the side door and out onto the street.

The run was easy enough. It was along a route he’d been on once with Toby. The other runners told him the tough spots were still clear thanks to the new heavy. B8 dutifully kept a step behind him the whole way, silent as a shadow.

Silent even as John ran him down a dead end-alley and straight into the arms of a waiting courser.

“Delta-six-three-cirrus,” announced the courser.

B8 stopped in his tracks. His chin fell to his chest. The courser ignored John as she stepped in between the pseudo-Railroad runner and his package. She held on to B8’s wrist while pressing something to her ear. The pair vanished in a rain of blue sparks. The sharp smell of ozone burned John’s nostrils. The teleporting he’d seen before with Kellogg, but the shutdown made him grind his teeth.

John heard Kellogg before he saw him, “Good work, Kid. First reclamation.”

He lobbed a sack of caps at John. His hands weren’t quick enough. It hit him in the chest and tumbled to the ground, bursting open. John grumbled and squatted down to pick up the scattered caps, stuffing them into his jacket pockets.

“The next one’s gonna have to get through, Pops,” he looked up from his place on the asphalt. “They’re not gonna let me keep running if I can’t get them to where they’re supposed to go.”

Kellogg kicked a few stray caps towards him, they scrabbled along the ground, coming to rest a few inches out of John’s reach. He fell onto his knees and crawled forward, pinching each cap up with a small grunt.

“I had to trade a week’s worth of kitchen duty for this run,” continued John as he stood. “You should see what dishwater does to my nails.”

“Yeah, yeah. The next one’ll go through.”

“I’ve heard it’ll be a placement,” he hoped the news would placate Kellogg, “Some farm somewhere.”

“Give us the location and we’ll pick them up after you leave.”

“That’s what I was thinking, except maybe wait a day or two.”

“So it can’t be tied back to you, of course, of course. Can’t have our insider under too much scrutiny, now can we.”

“What’s gonna happen to that one?” John nodded to the spot B8 last stood.

 Kellogg shrugged, “Simple memory erase and everything goes back to normal. Just another happy little synth sweeping up the atrium.”

“Are they though?” John pondered under his breath. B8's face was so tight and drawn. So gummed up by something he couldn't even get words out.

Kellogg's smile tightened as he stepped closer, tugging on the cuff of his gloves. His hand snapped out and grabbed John by the jaw, “Thought you were made of sterner stuff, Kid. Didn’t think they’d get to you with their bullshit so soon. You’re not getting paid to have an existential crisis.”

John smiled against his grip.

Kellogg let go and patted John on the cheek, “You’re being handsomely rewarded for your aid in getting wayward synths back home. Don’t forget that.”

John stepped back and rubbed at the pain in his cheeks. “What am I supposed to tell them back at HQ?”

“Z4 walked around for half the fucking day. Any lookouts they’ve got will be able to confirm your story about a courser. Maybe cry when you tell them about how the mean courser beat you up and stole your synth.” Kellogg smirked, “Now, when’s the next run?”

“Not sure yet.”

Kellogg glared.

“Honest!" John held his hands up. "You think they have this shit planned out? You really overestimate these people. They’ll come up with something a few hours before they ‘feel’ like they gotta move the package. No schedule, no nothing. Once I get the location, I’ll leave it in the same place.”

“Nah, use the dead drop near Goodneighbor.”

“Ten-four, good buddy,” John saluted.

Kellogg lazily returned the salute before reaching down to activate the stealthboy on his belt, disappearing before John’s eyes. The hum of it vibrated in John’s skull.

 

* * *

 

J8-24 smiled a broad, white smile. Her deep brown eyes sparkled as she watched John approach. “You the fella taking me out to my farm?” She wrung a straw hat in her hands.

John returned her smile, adopting her thick accent to reply, “I’m the fella. You ready to mosey on outta here, partner?”

They hoisted their heavy packs onto their backs, the smile never leaving her face. The journey took a little under a day, their packs laden with equipment and seeds for this new life.

Farming, John thought, was an poetic profession for someone starting over. Growing, cultivating, nurturing. He chastised himself. The few days she’d be a farmer would be poetic, but the rest of her days would be back to usual.

J8-24, now Jackie, prattled on and on with her injected memories. Regaling John with stories about her brother’s pet brahmin, her dad’s cornbread recipe, and her aunt’s custom rifles. John would press for details, for more information, and Jackie would shake her head any time she came across something she couldn’t rightly remember. “Got cobwebs up here sometimes. Ain’t a worry, though. I remember which end of the hoe goes in the dirt, s’all that matters.”

The easy conversation made the trek out to Culpeper Farm on the western edge of the Commonwealth all the quicker. Keeping Jackie chattering was an easy way to brush aside the thoughts of her face going slack as whichever courser showed up and uttered her recall code.  
  
They spent one night in an abandoned bookstore and were looking at her farm by supper time the next day.

“Ain’t this a sight?” Jackie asked breathlessly as they trekked across her fallow fields.

She dropped her pack onto the porch. “You promise to come back out here when I got that corn ready? So I can stuff you full of cornbread?” She turned and asked John, poking at his stomach.

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?” John replied, plastering a fake smile on his face, one that he hoped wouldn’t belie the fact that he knew the corn would never grow, the bread would never be made, and they would never share it.

Jackie dug into some of her canned supplies for dinner, and John gladly accepted a bed for the night before heading back to HQ. With no pack and no one to watch out for but himself, he was sure he could make it by nightfall if he was up and moving by dawn.

Sleep came fitfully. Dreams about Jackie humming to herself, walking up and down rows of corn in the warm nuclear sunshine, crept into his mind. Her face would go blank and her crops would wither and mold around her.

As the sun began to brighten the sky, pan fried CRAM roused him from his sleep. Jackie stood over a small hotplate on her kitchen table, sliding thick slices of it around her cast iron frying pan.

“Figured breakfast was the least I could do before you’re on your way,” she murmured as she pointed to a plate of biscuits with several warm slices of CRAM sandwiched inside of them. He yawned, picked the sleep out of his eyes, and wiped them on his dirty jeans. Nodding a slow thank you, he slid into a chair at the table.

The sound of heavy boots on her wooden porch made him choke on his mouthful of breakfast.

“Well hey there, John. Thought you’d be long gone by now,” Kellogg darkened the doorway and a courser loomed over his shoulder.

“Morning fellas.” Jackie motioned to them with the fork in her hand, “These friends of yours?”

“Yeah…” John cleared his throat. “These are my buddies Mike and uh, Ike. They were supposed to meet me _later_.”

“Ain’t nothing to worry about. Y’all want some breakfast? Got biscuits and CRAM.”

“Thanks J8, I do believe I will.” Kellogg pulled out a chair, a cruel smirk on his lips, and sat at her table. He rubbed his hands together as she placed a biscuit in front of him. John swallowed heavily as he heard Jackie's original designation from Kellogg's mouth. 

“And you?” Jackie addressed the courser. Her face as open and unafraid, as if she were talking to any person, not the one tasked with bringing her back to the Institute.

“Theta-four-seven-arctus,” commanded the courser.

John flinched as the fork Jackie was holding clattered against the cast iron pan. He swore he saw a flash of recognition, a twitch of a frown on her ever-present smile, just before her face relaxed and her head dropped.

He kept his eyes tightly closed as he heard her teleported away, and he opened them as the jingle of a bag full of caps landed on the formica table in front of him.

“There’s an extra fifty in there for good behavior,” Kellogg said, finishing his breakfast and wiping the crumbs from his mouth.

John dropped what was left of his sandwich. He wrapped his hand around the fabric sack holding his reward. The rough edges of the caps dug into the palm of his hand. He squeezed tighter.

“I said to give it a few days,” John grumbled.

“Timetable was pushed up, Kid. What? Did you want to give her a few more days of playing pretend?”

John opened his mouth to speak.

“This isn’t real.” Kellogg interrupted, gesturing to the wooden walls of Jackie’s farmstead of ten hours. “It’s bullshit they stuck in her brain. Remember that. J8’s already back at the Institute. She’ll get cleaned up, we’ll get rid of whatever memory job the Railroad gave her, and she gets back to doing what she was built to do.”

John did his best to ignore his dawning realization that he _was_ warmed the idea of a few days of doing what she wanted to do before it was all reset back to zero. But was it really what she truly wanted? He shook the thoughts out of his head, and focused on the logistics of covering his own ass.

“They stick a tail on these placed synths for a few days to make sure they’re adjusting, y’know. They’ll have it figured out tomorrow that my synth is gone, just like the last one. I asked for a few days.”

“I’m still buying intel for caps, so if you still want to I guess you’ll need to come up with something to tell the next Railroad rat that shows up up, then.” Kellogg stood, and clapped John on the shoulder. Squeezing hard enough for John to flinch.

“I always fucking do, Pops.” John pulled his shoulder away.

“Good kid.” Kellogg ruffled his hair.

 

* * *

 

John caught the Railroad’s tail creeping up the backside of the property that afternoon: Sarah. They’d done their first training run together, she’d joined a few months earlier. He popped a cowboy hat on his head and a piece of dead grass in his mouth. Walking towards her, bow-legged like he’d seen cowboys do in a holotape once, he made jingling spur sounds with his mouth.

“Howdy!” John called out, thick with a fake drawl. He shuffled his feet in an impromptu hoe-down, kicking up clouds of dirt. He had his story ready, all he had to do was perform.

“What the fuck, John?” Sarah snorted, looking him up and down.

“It’s all this fresh country air! Hoo-wee! It just does something to a cowpoke.” John took a deep breath and held it. He laughed as he exhaled, pulled the grass from out of his mouth, and shifted his feet to stand normally. “Just fucking with you.”

“I sure fucking hope so, because that was awful. Please don’t do that again. To anyone. Ever.” Sarah frowned. She craned her neck to scope out the farmhouse over John’s shoulder. “How’s Jackie? Why are you still here?”

“She asked me to stay for a little bit longer. She’s crashed out, that walk was a doozy.”

“C’mon.” Sarah pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest. “You know you’re just supposed to get her here and then go, you can’t be handling the synths like this.”

“I know, I know! She just looked so sad and scared. She was almost crying.” John pouted, “It was breaking my heart.”

He played up the pathos. He watched the way Sarah wanted to believe him, that the synth was “safe” in her little wooden shack. He saw the way she chewed at her lip until he mentioned Jackie crying, and he knew Sarah believed him, his story, his lie.

“Yeah, it’s tough when they look at you like that.” Sarah nodded, and reached out to squeeze John’s arm. “But she’s all good to go, she’s got the knowledge. You just gotta pull the bandage off fast. They take a few days to adjust and their new memories kick in and bang, they’re right as rads.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I'm heading out tomorrow. I swear.” John drew a cross over his heart.

The runner watched his face before rolling her eyes, “Alright fine. Just be careful.”

“Always am. Hey!” John placed the piece of straw back in his mouth, “Tell HQ to have a cold one waiting for me when I get there.”

The runner chuckled as she turned to make her way back, “Will do.”

 

* * *

 

John’s heart skipped a beat when B8-44 shuffled out from behind Augusta’s safehouse owner, McGuire. The synth he was running was the first one he’d turned over to the Institute months go. An event he genuinely hoped had been sucked out of the synth’s memories for both their sakes.

He slapped on a cheerful face, something to cover the dread swelling in his stomach. “B8! Buddy! How’d you-”

McGuire sliced the air at her throat with her hand, signaling John to stop whatever thought he was trying to finish.

“Who the fuck are you?” B8 snarled. “You know me?”

“Yeah, man, I know you’re B8. Got your file from Deb in HR.” John chuckled nervously.

“You do, don’t you? You fucking know me. Have I been here before? I have these flashes,” B8 jammed his fingers into his temple, “Just flashes. Like I know this place. I know it. But I-I-I don’t.”

John silently prayed that none of the flashes included anything incriminating.

He raised his hands in platitude, “Hey man, it’s ok. I’m just gonna get you on down to Adirondack and maybe someone there’s got some answers for you.”

It seemed to satisfy B8, who nodded tersely. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Dawn runs were John’s favorite. The world was quiet and new, mostly asleep. B8 had enough fire in him that John had trouble keeping pace.

Ticon loomed on the horizon, but John pulled B8 off the main road and through side streets, winding around and around. It didn’t take much to throw off someone’s sense of direction, much less someone who’s lived underground their whole lives.

Rounding a corner, John caught the shimmer of two figures hidden by their stealthboys to his left. His pace slowed and he spun to see B8 run up on him, his brow furrowed.

“This is a dead end, man.” B8 walked in circles, his hands on his hips, gasping for air.

“Yeah, uh, got mixed up back there.” John nodded back the way they came, hoping that whatever courser Kellogg had brought with would utter that magic word as quickly as possible.

“B8-44! Fancy seeing you again.”

John watched fear blossom in B8’s face at the sound of Kellogg’s voice cutting through the crisp morning air, along with the dawning realization that some of his flashes were true.

The courser’s recitation of a recall code followed behind it, “Delta-six-three-cirrus.”

The same code as before, John realized, but a different look on B8’s face this time. A whispered, “no” passed through his slackening face as his programming powered him down. John watched B8’s eyes roll back in his head before his chin hit his chest, and John’s heart sank. B8 remembered.

Kellogg pulled up on B8’s hair, lifting his head up to peer at his face. “Second time escapee. First time that’s ever happened. Bravo, B8.”

He turned to John, “New safehouse?”

John pulled his gaze away from B8’s slack face “What?”

“Were. You two. Headed to. A new. Safehouse.”

“Oh, yeah. Adirondack.” John shook his head and sniffed. “The grey house two blocks up on your left. Probably got three agents in it or something.”

“Excellent. A synth and a safehouse. It’s our lucky day.” Kellogg pushed a large bag of caps into John’s hand. “Anything else?”

“I know I keep saying it, but you gotta let me get one of them through or they won’t let me keep running. You’re tying my hands with this interception shit.”

“This one’ll ‘get through’, don’t worry.” Kellogg nodded to the courser, who teleported away with the shut-down synth. “You dropped him off and then whoops, seems like the Institute found Adirondack Safehouse. Too bad. Try to act sad when the reports come in to HQ.”

“Yeah, alright.” John nodded, bouncing the sack of caps in his hand.

“New orders, Kid. Get us more info about these safehouses. You’ve only told us about the three. Keep sending in those reports. Boss wants more information on the people you’re working with.”

“Yeah, sure. Caps is caps.” John held up the sack of caps and rattled it, tight smile on his face. “Hey Pops, what’s gonna happen with B8. Second time and all. That can’t be good, right?”

Kellogg shrugged, “Scrapped. Faulty programming, faulty hardware, something. I don’t know. Don’t care. They want the synth back, the synth gets brought back. Simple. Why? You worried about your friend there?”

“Nah, just curious.”

Kellogg snorted, “Good. Now use that curiosity to do your fucking job and get us a list of the rest of those safehouses, and more names. More fucking names.”

 

* * *

 

The jog to Bunker Hill was short and sweet. B8’s lifeless face burned into the back of his eyelids.

Twice. Twice the synth had crawled out of the Institute, and twice he’d been “reclaimed”. The first time might have been a directive in programming but the second? Shit. The second had to have been all him, right? A bug in his programming that no memory wipe could erase. Was it a bug or was it just… B8? It was innate in B8, a need to get out, get away, get all the way to the surface.

An echo of Kellogg’s voice from his time in training, reverberated in his head as John downed the first shot of whiskey and warmed his belly:

“Just advanced robotics, Kid. A Mr Handy with some skin on it. Their personalities are programmed by a computer.”

The second and third shot slid over his tongue and burned his throat.

Maybe they just didn’t dig those deeper memories out once B8 was laid out on that table with the wires and needles. Maybe-

A fourth shot stung the inside of his cheeks.

Maybe all of this was getting too fucking _complicated_. Maybe this wasn’t his fight to fight. Maybe this was getting too fucking heavy. Maybe he needed to watch out for himself and get the fuck out before people started asking too many questions. Maybe he needed to run.

His stash of caps was enough to live off of for the rest of the year. He had plenty of time to find other work, maybe put this sneaking and undercover shit to use for someone else. Sell his services to the highest bidder. Yeah. A free agent.

He swallowed a fifth and final shot of rot gut, hissing through his teeth while piecing together the story and excuses he’d tell Kellogg.

 

* * *

 

“Took a while, but I got ‘em,” John waved a booklet at Kellogg’s face.

“Took two months for this shit?” Kellogg snatched the booklet from John’s hand. “I asked for every name and location of every member of the Railroad, and it’s all in this?”

“Yeah, all the intel I could find, which wasn’t much.”

“Bullshit.”

“Hey, think what you want but those names are legitimate. Scribbled them down myself. Getting those files alone was a nightmare. But it’s all there, promise. You paid for intel and I got you intel.” John open and closed his hand, signaling that it was ready to be filled with a bag of caps.

“That you did, that you did,” Kellogg muttered while flipping through the pages of the booklet, his mouth subtly moving as he scanned down a page or two.

He absentmindedly tossed a sack of caps into the air. John was quick to snatch it up.

Kellogg tucked the booklet into his breast pocket, “Next up, another safehouse.”

“Yeah… about that. I’m done. I’m bowing out, exit stage right. It’s getting a little too heavy for me. The way I figure it: you paid for intel, I got you intel. Done and done. Those people on the list can get you whatever else you need.”

“Done?” Kellogg laughed. “You actually think you’re done? Do you want a minute to rethink that?”

“Nah. Thought about it plenty and I’m still done. You got what you paid for and I’m closing up shop and heading out.” John shrugged.

Kellogg’s face broke into a tight smile, holding out his hand, “Ah well, it was good while it lasted.”

“That it was, Pops. That it was.” John reached out to take up his hand, relieved that his plan was going so well. A clean break. Services rendered. No harm, no foul.

Kellogg curled his hand into a fist, pulled back, and cracked John in the jaw.

John doubled over, clutching the side of his face, blood on his tongue. “What the fuck, man?”

Another solid fist caught him in the ear, and again in the shoulder. “C’mon!” John pleaded, trying to deflect Kellogg’s powerful swings.

He heard his cheekbone crack before he felt the sharp, throbbing pain under his left eye where Kellogg’s fist connected with his face. His fist connected again and again with John’s nose, flooding his mouth with blood and blurring his vision.

Kellogg grabbed him by his shirt, to keep him upright while his fists landed over and over against John’s face and body. John struggled to kick Kellogg, to push him away. His fingers scratched and clawed, he landed his own body blows but Kellogg was relentless.

His head swam, he struggled to keep himself upright as he felt a knee ram into his stomach, forcing all the air out of his lungs. He collapsed to the ground. The sharp debris of the road biting into his knees and the palms of his hands.

Kellogg cursed under his breath while he kicking John down onto the pavement.

Throbbing waves of pain coursed through his body. He reached out to try to pull himself away, only to feel his hand ground under the heel of Kellogg’s boot.

“Send everyone in. We’ve got enough names and locations. All targets.” Kellogg barked his orders to what John assumed was a courser.

“Yes, sir,” they replied and relayed the order into his radio.

John managed to curl into a ball, but not before Kellogg landed a final kick to his ribs.

Blood and sweat blurred his vision, but he could hear their footsteps growing distant.

“Should we shoot him, sir?” the courser asked.

“Nah. I saw a pack of ferals around the corner. If he’s not dead now, he will be in a few minutes.” Kellogg’s laugh was raspy and barbed with hate. He reached down to lift up John’s head by his hair and slammed it down into the pavement before disappearing.

For a moment all John focused on was his breathing. In and out, each breath in sending shocks of pain ricocheting through his chest and down his arms. The backpack that’d been ripped off his back had to be somewhere nearby. The stimpack he kept tucked in his back pocket had been lost in the scuffle, but his pack had a spare.

The ferals, lured by the sounds and smells of his struggle with Kellogg, shuffled up one end of the street. He could smell the rotting flesh, hear their unholy moans and growls, snapping at the air as they followed the scent of fresh blood, his blood, spilled on the ancient asphalt.

His left eye had swollen shut. He laboriously wiped the blood and sweat away from the other, eventually using what remained of his shirt to give himself a clear view.

Looking across the street, at what seemed an agonizing distance away, his pack sat discarded against a low concrete wall. John crawled along his belly, only able to rely on his right, unbroken leg to push him forward over the ground. His ribs screamed every time he slid across the ragged asphalt. His one good eye flicked between the discarded bag and the shambling horde of feral ghouls closing in, hoping he would make it to his bag in time.

His stomach lurched, spurred on by the pain and volume of blood he swallowed. His mouth flooded with saliva and within moments, he wretched.

The cry from one of the feral ghouls within the pack sent chills down his spine. He looked and saw violent movement as they jostled for space to take off in a run for the fresh meat crawling across the street. They’d heard or smelled him, he pulled himself faster, his vision going white with every jostle. With one last deep breath, he pushed himself upright, grabbing for his bag and tumbled over the wall. Ripping open the bag, he dug for the first gift Kellogg had ever given him.

Flicking on the stealthboy, the hum of the circuitry thrummed in his chest as he held it close. It was almost soothing. The ferals stopped their screeching as they busied themselves with the puddles of blood and sick John had left behind. He dug through his pack, eventually finding his spare stimpack. His relieved shout caught the attention of the ferals, who looked up from their meager meal.

John watched them from over the wall as the stimpack worked it’s way through his body. Some of his pain ebbed away, and he could feel some of the bruises fade. He could see out of his left eye again. He stood up, his less broken leg able to hold a portion of his weight, slipping his pack onto his back.

His plan had been to head to Goodneighbor after calling it quits as a rat. Just him and his sack of caps. He’d get tanked for a few days, sober up, pick up a job doing something that required fast feet, not much moral fortitude, rinse and repeat for as long as he could.

The trek was slow going, his limp and the blood loss made him dizzy. He sat too often, giving him too much time to reflect. What did he think the Institute was going to do with the intel, set up trade negotiations? He cussed at himself. He knew it, knew it end like this, but the caps were good and he could convince himself that it wasn’t his responsibility what they did with the intel he got them. Getting the dates, names, locations was just a job. A job he did well.

His steps led on towards Goodneighbor.

He heard the first explosion in the distance. Probably Cambridge Safehouse. He brushed away thoughts of who would’ve been stationed there. People like Chowder, Toby, and Jefferson. Maybe a synth or two in hiding. Ones that might not want to go back. Ones like R8.

His steps led on towards Goodneighbor.

The second explosion was close, he felt the shockwave in his chest and brushed the falling ash away from his face. Arlington Safehouse. He stopped. He sighed. He’d handed the Institute the keys to the kingdom, a booklet full of names they could check off like a 'To Kill' list. There was no way he could stop what he’d had a hand in starting, but maybe he could ease the blow.

His steps led back to HQ.


	5. Chapter 5

Getting in to Railroad HQ was simple enough. The abandoned textile mill had too many entrances and not enough cover. He crawled through one of the broken bathroom windows, thinking robots would be the last things he’d find taking a piss.

Most of the monstrous textile machines had been gutted and scrapped decades before, leaving most of the factory floor open save for a few walls made of scrap. Which had been lit on fire. Fun.

Gen 2’s patrolled around the perimeter, easy enough for John to avoid under the cloak of his stealthboy.

Three. He found just three people huddling under desks. Two he knew, little gophers that scurried this way and that within HQ, delivering notes, running food, seeing everything. They were two of his best sources of information. A smile and a joke and they were happy enough that someone was looking their way before they spilled any of their beans.

Huddled under a desk, they looked even smaller. The whites of their eyes standing in stark contrast to the dark, acrid smoke hanging in the air. Too terrified to close them. The third face was new, someone he’d only seen once or twice in the hustle and bustle.

From where they were gathered, there was no direct path outside and away from the Institute and their Gen 2s. His single stealthboy wouldn’t be able to cover all of them, especially not if they were moving.

They could still hide, though, somewhere better than this. A back room held lockers, a staging area for agents. He’d seen the room clear on his dash out to the main floor. Double back, hide there, they won’t think to look. They’ll be safe, they can get out of this. He can salvage this. He can salvage something, and then he can _run_.

The huddling three didn’t recognize John’s broken and bruised face.

“John?”

“Surprise!” John wiggled his hands in the air, wincing when fractured wrist had enough of the theatrics. “We gotta get you somewhere better. Follow me.”

“Where?” one of them hissed.

“Locker room. Move.”

Dashing between piles of rubble, the four skittered across the concrete floor, staying low, stifling coughs and yelps. John scouted ahead, safely under the cloak of his stealthboy, turning it off to wave them through when corridors were clear. The mechanical marching of metal feet on the concrete floors tied a knot in his stomach each time they left the safety of cover.

Dashing into the empty locker room, he waved them on to a set of lockers. Each slipped into their one.

John reached for the knob on his stealthboy before Kellogg’s raspy laughter and heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He winced under the weight of it, slowly turning to watch a sinister smile split Kellogg’s face.

“Look who we have here,” Kellogg announced to the room. A few Gen 2’s turned towards the sound, their pale, plastic eyes trained on John’s face.

“Well hey, Pops! Fancy seeing you here,” John replied.

Kellogg’s face fell into a snarl as he lunged at John. He wrapped his hands in John’s shirt and pinned him to a set of lockers. “We were in the neighborhood, figured we’d drop in.”

“Sorry about the mess.” John smirked, swallowing the bile rising up in his throat. The mess. He just referred to his the building he'd set on fire, full of the dead bodies of his friends as “the mess”.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. We already took out the trash.” Kellogg chuckled and looked John up and down. “Well… almost all.”

A small rustle in the occupied lockers behind Kellogg caught John’s attention. His eyes flitted over Kellogg’s shoulder, lingering a moment too long before Kellogg’s clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Second time that tell of yours has gotten someone in trouble, Kid. Thought you’d learn by now.”

“Open the lockers,” Kellogg shouted over his shoulder.

“Aw, c’mon Pops,” John cajoled. “Let’s talk about--” Kellogg pressed his forearm firmly into John’s windpipe, cutting him off.

John heard the rapid whispering inside the lockers as the mechanical men approached. One tried to hold her door closed from the inside, but it was no use. Pulled out of their hiding spots, their eyes were wide, soot and blood smeared on their faces, their eyes locked on John. They struggled against the synthetic hands pulling them out of the lockers, creating a cacophony of desperate pleading. Their eyes wide and filled with fear.

“Fire.” Kellogg commanded.

A sharp crack of laser fire and the room fell into silence. The breath John didn’t know he was holding slipped past his teeth in a hiss as he watched their lifeless bodies slump to the floor. Their lifeless eyes, unblinking and unafraid, burned into his memory.

John didn’t move as Kellogg placed his pistol against John’s head, didn’t look away from the crumpled bodies of the people he thought he could save.

“I hate loose ends,” Kellogg admitted, cocking his gun. “They always come back to bite me in the ass. But you? I don’t think you’re going to do a fucking thing.” Kellogg chuckled, un-cocking his gun and gesturing to the bodies on the floor. “I think you earned this. Thanks Kid, couldn’t have done it without you.”

John let his legs give way under him as Kellogg and his band of merry men left to sweep through HQ one last time. He flinched at the distant sound of laser fire echoing down the hallway until it grew quiet again. Hours passed, the sun began to set, the room grew dark around him as he sat on a pile of rubble, watching the trio’s bodies grow cold and stiff.

 

* * *

 

John didn’t hear their footsteps. He recoiled and cursed as a hand rested on his shoulder. Two faces, equally grim and tight in the light of the lanterns they carried.

“Easy, easy. We’re friendlies. You ok? Need a stimpack or anything?”

John looked up at their faces. Two women, two runners he’d met in passing; Wyatt and Kitch.

“Water?” Wyatt held a canteen out to him. He shook his head, his stomach roiling at the idea of putting anything in it. She sloshed it and pushed it into his chest. “Drink.”

Kitch stepped around them both and moved through the locker room, assessing the damage. She bent over to take in the faces of the trio at his feet, trying to tilt their faces towards her, but they were too stiff to move.

“Maxxie, Gin, and I don’t know the blonde,” she said.

John pulled the canteen away from his mouth, “Sterling.”

“Sterling.” Kitch repeated. She muttered it under her breath several more times, as if she was trying to commit it to memory.

“What happened?” Wyatt asked, hooking her hand under John’ arm and pulling him up to stand.

He slowly shook his head, his mouth opening and closing. The thoughts that usually spun around his head at a thousand miles an hour, all gone. Silent. Dead.

“Institute?” Wyatt prompted.

“Y-y-yeah, they just… came out of nowhere.” John motioned towards the trio. “I found these three under… under a desk. Thought we could sneak out, you know?”

“But those Institute bastards had other ideas. Yeah, not surprised. It was just a matter of time before this happened. I told Agamemnon…” Wyatt trailed off with a sigh. “Listen, we do need some help. Kitch and I found a few other survivors from a couple other houses, but we need some help scouting the rest of the safehouses. See if anyone’s alive. Run them to a medic if we can. Can you help?”

Kitch joined Wyatt’s side, interlacing her fingers together while they waited for his answer.

John watched their expectant faces, eyes full of worry and rage. He nodded, secretly dreading paying this penance, but knowing it was something he needed to pay.

Kitch’s smile was broad and warm, Wyatt reached out and squeezed his arm, “Thanks, man. Grab your stuff and let’s go. There’s a few others outside already.”

 

* * *

 

The night passed in a blur. The skulking and running wore on him. His legs ached. His ribs were still tender from Kellogg’s boots, each deep breath constricting his chest.

There were moments where he thought about how simple it’d be to just run down a different street and off into the night, run off into obscurity, disappear, leave these people to heal in peace. Whatever they needed to do to rebuild would be done better without him.

Just when the sound of that voice in his head would tell him to run, they’d come upon another smoking husk of a safehouse, dig through rubble, loudly whisper to anyone alive, strain to listen for the smallest scratching or whimpering, and pull a survivor from the wreckage. The dazed, thankful face many of them wore, he felt obscene for taking comfort in it. He’d put them there in the first place.

Two safehouses were completely silent, they lingered for almost an hour before Wyatt called it and they moved on. They’d pulled out five in total, and had enough stimpacks and bandages for the worst of their injuries.

The last safehouse was cleared by the time the morning sun started to peek through the eastern windows of the nearby house they were taking shelter in. They moved quietly, bandaging three more survivors they’d found. Precious water was used to wash their faces clean of dust, and try to rinse out one of the survivor’s badly damaged eye.

John watched Kitch move around them with steady hands, from where he sat in a shady corner.

Wyatt squatted down next to him, her voice low. “Think we’re good here. It’s too dangerous to move around once the sun’s up. You should get somewhere else while you can.” She brushed dust off of his ragged shirt. “Get some food, some rest, change of clothes.”

“Yeah, sure, I can do that. I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Thanks again,” she reached out to squeeze his hand. “I don’t think we could’ve done this without your help. Eight people are alive because of you, remember that.”

John chewed on the inside of his mouth, nodding what he hoped looked solemn. A voice inside his head screamed. Screamed unholy things about deceit and lies. Screamed about how horrible he was for letting this seemingly wonderful person believe these wholesome things about his actions. Screamed about the dozens, hundreds, he’d doomed to die all the while, accepting these kind words about saving eight.

“Listen,” she continued “you don’t owe us anything but if you’re still in this fight with us, maybe you want payback or maybe you just want to see the Institute bleed, we’re all meeting up at the Third Rail tonight to figure out where we go from here.”

John nodded, “Yeah, hey thanks. Maybe, I don’t know. This is all-”

Wyatt waved her hand, “Don’t have to decide right now. Just think about it.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll try.”

“Get going, and don’t forget tonight. We could really use people like you.”

John stood, slinging his pack onto his back, nodding to the assembled Railroad survivors, and crawled out through a gap in the boarded up bedroom window. He was greeted by the morning sun. He squinted at it’s bright face, it’s warmth washing over his aching bones.

Taking a deep breath, he turned and made his way towards Goodneighbor.


	6. Chapter 6

The back room at the Third Rail was somber. A small lantern flickered on a simple table next to the doorway. A few grim faces watched him intently as he stepped into the room. For a moment he saw the faces of the dead from HQ; cheeks gaunt, skin grey, eyes milky. His stomach sank, and he uttered a quiet curse. He saw Ricky’s bloated face, R8’s snarling, Jackie laughing. He blinked rapidly, rubbed at his eyes until he saw sparks behind his eyelids.

Guilt wrapped itself tighter around him. A blanket, heavy and thick, wet and suffocating. He felt it first drape around his shoulders as he sat in that locker room, watching the trio laying on the cold ground.

It wrapped even tighter as they moved through all of the safehouses, getting heavier every time they found another body, every time a safehouse failed to answer “Anybody here?”.

Standing in this room, surrounded by twelve, the guilt twisted tightly around his neck. Just twelve. As loud and raucous as Railroad HQ was in its prime, it’d all been reduced to this. He’d reduced them to this. Kellogg’s platitudes and promises whispered in his ears, and he laughed at himself for believing them. “Just intel, so we can knock out the lynch pin and watch it all fall apart. Basically Bloodless. Synths can get back to us and reprogrammed.”

Maybe it would’ve been bloodless if he hadn’t tried to cut ties and run, if he’d just kept feeding Kellogg as much intel as he could. If he hadn’t been so fucking weak and selfish. If he hadn't satiated himself with his own apathy.

Wyatt called his name, and he opened his eyes to see the assembled crowd alive and mostly well. The tiny group of people parted in front of her, and she strode through to greet him with an open handshake.

“Thanks for coming, John. We were hoping to see you here.”

“What? And turn down an invite to the most happening party in all of Goodneighbor? Perish the thought.”

“Kitch and I must have told almost fifty people about this meeting, and look.” Wyatt flicked her chin at the assembled crowd. “Ten.”

Kitch appeared at her side, “I think this is everyone. You might as well start, I’m thinking.”

Wyatt nodded, clearing her throat to gather their attention. “This is it, folks. Everyone else is either dead or gone. Now I can’t blame them for calling it quits. Nothing about this is easy, but we know it’s right. I’m not gonna blow smoke up your asses, it’s going to be hard coming back from this. The Railroad is now thirteen runners, some bailing wire, and a stick of chewing gum. That’s all we’ve got. But we can do it. We _need_ to do it.

“We must be doing something right if the Institute is this far up our asses, am I right?” Tired laughter rumbled in the assembled crowd. Wyatt continued, “They came at us and they got us, they beat us down, but they didn’t kill us. That’s where they fucked up. We’re still here, and now we have more to fight for. It’s not just synths anymore, it’s also everyone we lost yesterday.

“I lost everyone at Mimsy. Four of us. John here lost everyone in HQ.”

A few in the crowd gasped. Fresh news and fresh hurt.

“Who did you all lose?” Wyatt addressed the crowd.

Names bubbled up, sometimes questions came from others about where and how, sometimes just a disbelieving “no” followed behind it.

Wyatt bowed her head, Kitch ran a loving hand along her back, it seemed comforting to both women. People in the crowd turned to hug each other, wipe away their tears, and mutter quick stories about how some of the deaths happened. The thick blanket of guilt tightened even more around John's neck. He'd put all these all these stories on their tongues, all these tears in their eyes.

Wyatt took a deep breath and raised her head, “So many good people gone. So many.”

“If you want to leave? Leave. You don’t owe us anything. We want you here because you want to be. Like I said, remember how hard this work was? Good, because it’s about to get ten times harder. We’ve got to refill ranks, scout out new safehouses, build new routes… and none of it’s gonna be easy.”

“Yeah so about that,” John interrupted. “While I was working HQ, I saw boxes full of intel that could still be there. It’s a whole lot of info from a whole lot of people who aren’t around anymore. We could get a nice head start on those Institute assholes if we had access to it. With a few sets of hands, we could get that paperwork out pretty quick.”

The crowd was silent. People shifted from foot to foot, averted their eyes, but none came forward or raised their hand.

“Hands and fast feet but we’re all runners so that’s pretty much a given, right? I mean we’d be pretty shitty runners if-“

Wyatt caught his eye and shook her head slightly, a signal he assumed meant he was headed down the wrong path of questioning.

John cleared his throat, “Sure, sure, I get it. HQ’s not exactly the place a smart person would want to head back into, but if anyone drops a few dozen IQ points overnight, I’ll be at the gate at the ass crack of dawn.”

In the uneasy silence of the room, he bowed his head and stepped back to rejoin the crowd. Wyatt had more words of wisdom, but his own thoughts drowned out whatever she was discussing.

The room, these people, he could feel their eyes on him, dissecting and picking him apart, his stomach roiled with the idea that if they looked hard enough, they’d see his guilt plain on his face. That they’d discover how his apathy and avoidance killed them all and judge him for that. He supposed he deserved it, to be picked apart like this, but he knew it’d solve exactly nothing. Confessing would lead to resentment and fear. Keeping his secret safe would let him pay his penance. He could suffer the hard looks if it meant he could work off some of his blood debt. Hell, maybe that was part of the price he payed: to hold on to this horror like a hot coal.

“Everyone for Wyatt?” a voice called.

A chorus of “aye”s rippled through the crowd. Voting, he assumed, for a new lead. He chimed in, he had no time to vet the other hopefuls but he’d experienced Wyatt’s perseverance for himself and it was exactly what the Railroad needed.

“The ayes have it. Wyatt is the new alpha.”

“I’d say thanks but I have a feeling I won’t be feeling too grateful after a bit. Speaking of, I’m thinking we lay low for about a month, let the Institute think we’re good and dead. They’ll get sloppy again, and we’ll be there to pick up the eventual escapees, maybe even find a way in,” Wyatt smiled.

“Stay out of trouble for a few weeks and I’ll come find you,” she continued, “No recruiting, no scouting, no movement. For a month you’re all mercs, messengers, and caravan guards, got it?

“I’ll be coming by to buy you a beer or three in a few weeks, and I’ll let you know where things are at. Check in with Kitch before you leave, so she can find out the best place to find you.”

“Congrats, Boss,” John nodded solemnly at Wyatt.

“Save the congratulations for when we get our first synth free,” she wagged her finger at him.

 

* * *

 

Runners disappeared into the night as it wore on, one at a time as to not draw attention to themselves. John spent the entire night nursing a beer and bullshitting with anyone who sat close enough. Trying to sleep would be impossible, and if he did manage to sleep, he knew he’d be out for a day or more. Up all night and off in the morning for the documents before going underground for a month.

The hinges of Goodneighbor’s front gate squealed as he pulled it open. No one was there to meet him. Stashing a stimpack and his pistol in the back of his jeans, he felt the weight of that blanket of guilt shift slightly on his shoulders. He knew it’d always be there, and even if it started to slip off, he’d pull it back on. This was his weight to carry after all. The one he deserved. The one he’d always carry. The weight to keep him honest, in its way.

Slipping on a pair of sunglasses he’d found abandoned on the Third Rail's bar to filter out the bright rays of the new day, Deacon took the first step of many in an effort to do right by those he'd done so wrong.


End file.
